"No documentaries," he says quickly, taking my hand, and I help him to his feet. "I know you love them and everything, but I can't take another one." He lets go of my hand and clutches his head with a joking smile. "They give me a boredom headache."
"Oh, poor baby." I roll my eyes, then walk toward the door, collecting my purse from the table, but when Tristan doesn't follow me, I turn around. "What's wrong?"
He dithers in the middle of the living room, massaging the back of his neck tensely. "Aren't you going to call him?"
I slide the handle of my purse over my shoulder, nerves bubbling inside me at the idea of actually getting on the phone and hearing Quinton's voice. God, I want to hear it so much, but it's scary at the same time, because I want him, yet I don't think he wants me--at least he isn't ready for whatever it is between us. "I was thinking that I would do it tomorrow... after I figured out what to say." I pause as he shuffles over to me, trying to figure out what on earth I'm supposed to say to Quinton, especially if he's read the letter. "What do you think I should say to him?"
The corners of his lips quirk as he stops in front of me. " 'Hi.' "
I gently pinch his arm. "Come on. I'm being serious. I have no clue where to begin."
He considers my question intently, his expression twisted in deep thought, then he abruptly relaxes. "Just be yourself, Nova." He swings his arm around my shoulder and steers me to the front door. "You have this way about you that makes it easy for people to feel like they can talk to you and I know Quinton feels that way, too, since, besides me, you're the only person he really talked to through all that shit."
"Thanks," I say, but I get a little uncomfortable with his touch--always do. Tristan and I have a weird history full of awkward conversations. He's always sort of flirted with me and once, right after my boyfriend committed suicide, I got really drunk and made out with him. Then I ran away crying and tried to slit my wrist open.
I wasn't exactly trying to kill myself when I did it. It was just a really low time in my life, perhaps the lowest I've ever been, and I was confused. But I'm better now--stronger. I don't get drunk and make out with random guys and I even have a tattoo right below that scar--never forget--to remind me never to forget any of the stuff that's happened. Good or bad. It's a part of me and sometimes I think it's made me stronger.
Tristan and I leave our apartment and I lock the door behind us. We live in an indoor complex that has an elevator, but it's so ancient and slow that most of the time we take the stairs. As we're making our way down, I try not to count them, but I'm finding it hard. I need a distraction from my thoughts of Quinton and the complication building between Tristan and me, so I get out my phone to call Lea to see if she's in for a movie-and-pizza night. Hopefully she is. That way Tristan and I won't be alone.
"Hey, it's me," I say after she answers, then stupidly add, "Nova."
"No duh." She laughs. "You're such a dork."
"Gee, thanks," I reply sarcastically. "That means a lot coming from the girl who colored on her face with a permanent marker the other day."
"I was trying to have school spirit," she explains defensively. "How the hell was I supposed to know the damn 'Go Broncos' wouldn't wipe off my face afterward?"
"Um, by the fact that the marker said 'Sharpie' on it." I stop at the bottom of the stairway. "And 'permanent.' "
"Ha ha," she says as Tristan opens the door for me and I step out into the sunlight beaming down from the crystal-blue sky. "You're such a smartass."
"So are you." I head up the sidewalk toward the carport with Tristan lollygagging behind me, messing around with his lighter.
"I know, and I love that I'm rubbing off on you."
"Me, too." I rummage through my purse for the keys to my car. "Anyway, so Tristan and I are heading to get some pizza and a movie, then we're going to bring it back home. Are you down for a pizza/movie night?"
"Can't," she says hurriedly. "I have plans."
"Plans with who?" I halt at the edge of the carport in front of my car. Tristan stops with me, observing me with curiosity. "I know you're secretly dating," I say to Lea. "So fess up."
"I am not," she replies, feigning offense.
"You are too," I retort. "It's why you've been hanging out at all the football games."
"Hey, I like football," she argues. "I even turned on ESPN once."
"On accident," I remind her. "You were channel surfing and then stopped on it because you thought the reporter was hot."
"Hey, if I say I like football, then I like football."
"No you don't. In fact, you told me once that it was a pointless sport that only existed because guys have this need to prove that they're tougher than each other."
"Hey, not all guys." Tristan hops off the curb and underneath the shade of the carport that runs around the entire complex. Then he rounds the front of my car to the passenger side and opens the door. "In fact, I don't mind being wimpy at all."
"Sure you don't," I tease, going to the driver's side. "That's why you tried to pick a fight with that guy in the campus yard the other day."
"I did that because he slapped your ass," he says, ducking into the car, and I open my door and get inside too. We slam the doors and then I rev up the engine. "I normally try to avoid fights."
"He slapped my ass accidentally," I protest, buckling my seat belt.
"Sure, keep telling yourself that," he says with an eye roll as he guides his seat belt over his shoulder.
"Um, hello," Lea says through the receiver. "I'm still here, you know."
"Sorry, we were just arguing," I tell her, putting on my sunglasses.
"Yeah, I heard." She uses that tone that has been getting under my skin for the last few weeks, the one that implies that she thinks Tristan likes me. Normally I'd call her out on it, but not with him right next to me.
"So are you in or out for movie night?" I change the subject.
"I already told you I'm busy."
"Fine. Go on your date, then."
"It's not a date." She attempts to sound irritated but I can hear the smile in her voice.
"If you say so." It's slightly humid inside the car so I crank the air up a notch. "But just so you know, I'm going to wait up all night to see who drops you off."
"Fine by me," she says, but I can tell she doesn't believe me.
"Have fun on your date," I say sarcastically, getting ready to hang up.
"You too," she replies with hilarity. "On your date."
I shake my head, but laugh and then say good-bye. After we hang up, I toss the phone into my bag. I wonder if Tristan could hear any of that. It doesn't seem like he could as he squints out the window at Stan, our twenty-five-year-old neighbor, dragging a keg toward the entrance of the apartment complex.
"Looks like Stan's having a party," he notes, and I hate the interest in his tone.
"Isn't he always?" I put the shifter in reverse and pull down the visor. The sun is starting to descend and it's so blinding I can barely see, even with my sunglasses on. That's how sunsets are in Idaho, though. Because of the shallow hills and nonexistent buildings, there's not much to block out the light, so the sky turns into one big orange-and-pink reflection at dusk.
"Maybe we should go," he suggests, watching Stan struggle to keep the entrance door open so he can drag the keg inside. Tristan glances at me with an unreadable expression. "It could be fun."
I'm starting to press on the gas to back up, but quickly tap on the brakes, stopping the car. "Tristan, I don't think that's such a good idea. You're still in a really vulnerable place in your life. I mean, I remember what happened when I tried weed four months after I stopped doing drugs... and you did really hard stuff... I know your sponsor would agree with me..." I stop rambling because he looks like he's about to laugh at me, his lips pressed tightly together, his blue eyes sparkling. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
His smile breaks through. "I was just fucking with you, Nova." Laughter escapes his lips as he reaches for the ciga
rettes in his pocket. "I wouldn't go to a party. I care about my recovery enough not to fuck up right now."
I narrow my eyes at him. "That wasn't funny."
He keeps on smiling as he puts the end of the cigarette between his lips and lights up. "It kinda was."
I shake my head, rolling down my window as smoke laces the air. "It's not funny to make me worry like that."
"Hey." He leans across the seat, sticking the hand holding the cigarette out to the side and cupping my face with his free hand, startling me with his unexpected, almost intimate, touch. "I'm sorry. You're right. It's not funny to make you worry about that, but it's always good to know you care about me."
I sigh. "I care about everyone, which makes my life too stressful sometimes."
"I know." He smoothes his finger across my cheekbone and I try not to flinch, despite the fact that I want to. I wonder what these touches mean and worry that one day things are going to get out of hand and confrontation is going to be inevitable. I hate confrontation. I really, really do. "Which makes you such a good person."
I plaster on a smile, because I have to. He's in a fragile state--I know that. And he relies on me a lot. If we weren't friends, I have no idea what would happen with him. Whether he'd be able to take care of himself or slip back into old habits, and I don't want to find out.
I casually turn my head toward the windshield, pretending that the only reason is that I'm going to back up the car. "You're so weird sometimes..." I crank the wheel to the left and finish backing out of the spot. "Always complimenting me."
"I'm weird." He gapes at me, pointing at himself. "You're the one who always says goofy things."
"I do not," I protest, even though it's true. I do say goofy things sometimes, when I get nervous.
"You do, too," he insists as I straighten up the wheel and drive out of the parking lot. "Like that one time you told me some random fact about a raccoon."
"I do that when I'm nervous."
"Still, it's goofy."
"It's not that goofy. It just means I have a colorful personality."
"A colorful, goofy personality." He takes a drag on his cigarette and then starts hacking as he blows out the smoke. He hurries to roll the window down, coughing as he spits.
"You're so gross." I pull a disgusted face. "Seriously."
"Hey, I have a cold," he says defensively as he slumps back in the seat with his arm resting on the sill so most of the smoke goes out the window. "I can't help it."
"You've had that cold for a couple of weeks now. Maybe it's time to go get it checked out." I turn out on the main road that goes straight through the center of town. It's bordered by trees and, since it's fall, the leaves have fallen onto the street and sidewalks. It's a beautiful sight and fall is one of my favorite times of the year.
"Okay, Mom." He rolls his eyes as he takes another drag.
"Or maybe stop smoking," I say. "You know those things can kill you, right?"
"You know, you're sounding sort of preachy." He ashes his cigarette out the window, grinning amusedly. "But that's okay. I know you only do it because you're secretly in love with me."
I give him a blank stare, working hard to restrain a smile because the big goofy grin on his face looks so silly. "You're such a dork."
"Good. I can be the dork and you can be the goof and we can complete each other."
I can't help it. I burst out laughing. "Okay, easy there, Jerry Maguire."
His face contorts with perplexity. "Who the hell's Jerry Maguire?"
My laughter shifts to shock. "Are you kidding me?"
He shakes his head. "No, who is the guy?"
"It's not a guy... well, it is, but what you just said... it's from the movie Jerry Maguire..." I trail off as his confusion deepens. "Never mind. But may I point out that the fact that you weren't quoting the movie makes it ten times cheesier that you just said that."
Grinning, he raises his balled fist in the air, like he's celebrating. "Yeah, now I'm a dork and cheesy. That makes us even more compatible."
I can't help but smile again, despite the fact that I think he might be hitting on me, because it's funny. And I need funny right now. Need happy, otherwise I'll start focusing on the worry. Focusing on Quinton and if he's okay.
We continue to talk for the rest of the drive to the pizza place, about goofiness and being dorks. Eventually the topic shifts to school, like how many classes he's going to sign up for next semester. By the end of the drive, he's telling me again that I act like his mom. Well, not his mom, per se, because he rarely talks to her, something I don't understand because he hasn't opened up to me about it yet. But by the time we get back to our apartment, we've veered off the arguing and started chatting about the movie we rented, Anchorman, which he insists is hilarious and can't believe I haven't watched yet.
"For someone who's so into movies, you're seriously movie-deprived," he says as he sets the pizza box down on the coffee table.
I put the DVD beside the television, then go into the kitchen to grab a soda. "I've seen a lot of movies. Just not this particular one."
"Yeah, right. I've heard you say a ton of movies that you haven't seen that a lot of normal people have." He drops down on the sofa, kicks his shoes off, and puts his feet up.
I open the fridge door. "Well, I think we already established that I'm not a normal person." I grab a can of Dr Pepper for me and a Mountain Dew for him before I bump the door shut with my hip. Then I toss him the Mountain Dew. "Besides, I've seen a lot of movies you haven't."
He catches the soda. "Like what?" he questions.
I pop the tab and the soda fizzles, then I take a sip as I head for the sofa. "I don't know." I sit down beside him, thinking of a good answer. "How about Fight Club. I know you haven't seen that."
He taps the top of the can before popping the tab. "Yeah, because it's old."
"It's not that old," I argue as he leans forward and opens the pizza box. "It was made in the nineties and we were born in the nineties."
He takes a slurp of his soda, then puts the can down on the coffee table and gets a slice of pizza. "So maybe we're old."
"Maybe we are," I say. "Sometimes I feel older than I am."
"Me too," he admits, picking a pepper off the pizza and discarding it into the box. "I think that comes with life experiences, though."
He's right. I think we've both been through so much that sometimes we both feel older than we are. It's probably that way for Quinton, too, and it makes me want him here with me, so I can cuddle up on the sofa with him and know that he's okay.
It gets quiet as I get lost in my thoughts and finally I set my soda down and get up to put the DVD in. Once the previews start, I return to the couch and start eating. Tristan and I chat again about being old until the movie comes on, then grow quiet.
The further into the movie we get, the closer he scoots toward me on the sofa to the point where I feel like I'm on a date. I begin questioning if I should get up and move. But I don't want to hurt his feelings, especially when he's in such a vulnerable place. Just like Quinton, who I wish were here with me. Quinton, who's so far away, but I want him right here. I want to touch him. See if he's okay. Be with him more than maybe I should--will ever be, maybe.
The longer the night goes on, the more my thoughts drift to Quinton. What he's doing. Thinking. How the last two months have been for him. I want to talk to him, but I'm afraid of all the unsaid stuff I know there's going to be between us. I just hope we can say it, otherwise things will be like they were in the past, when he wouldn't talk to me. It was the same thing with Landon. When we were dating, I thought I knew him. I thought we had a good relationship. I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with him. But there was so much unsaid between us and in the end it never did get said.
"So what do you think so far?" Tristan interrupts my thoughts as he inches closer to me so that the side of his leg is pressed up against mine.
I strain a smile, stiffening as his breath touches
my cheek. "It's good. Really funny." But I'm barely paying attention.
He slides his arm across the back of the sofa and behind me. I catch a whiff of soap mixed with cigarette smoke. "See, I told you you'd like it."
I make my lips curve into an even bigger smile and either he doesn't notice I'm faking being happy or he doesn't say anything. He returns his attention to the movie, his eyes locked on the screen as he gets another slice of pizza. I start to become hyper-aware of him and his movements, how tired he looks, the bags under his eyes. I think he's tired and I start to debate whether I should say I'm exhausted as an excuse to get out of the growing discomfort of the situation. It'd be so easy to go back to my room, but at the same time I know my being here helps Tristan stay out of trouble. So I stay put and attempt to concentrate on the movie the best I can.
*
"What are we doing here?" I ask Quinton as I stand on the edge of a cliff, staring out at the land before us. Rolling hills that go on for miles and miles, until they connect with the horizon.
"We're getting some peace and quiet," he says, and I can feel his honey-brown eyes on me so I turn and look at him.
He looks healthier than the last time I saw him, more muscular, his eyes brighter, his hair cropped short like the first time I met him. He's not wearing a shirt, the defined scar on his chest visible, along with the tattoos on his arm: Lexi, Ryder, and No One. Even though I know both the scar and the tattoos are related to the accident, I only know from the stuff I've put together on my own. Quinton's never really told me anything himself about what happened that night, and I wonder if he ever will.
"What?" he asks, his brow arching, and I realize I've been silently staring at him.
I shake my head, still unable to take my eyes off him. "It's nothing," I say. "I was just wondering..." I trail off. "Never mind."
He reaches out and touches his palm to my cheek. "It's not nothing, Nova. So please just tell me... I want to know... I want to know everything you're thinking."
It's such an honest request that it takes me a moment to respond.
"I was just thinking about your tattoos and scars and what they mean." As soon as it leaves my lips, I know I've said the wrong thing.
I can see his muscles wind tight, his fingers fold into his palms, his scruffy jaw go taut. I want to retract what I said, but it's too late and suddenly he's stepping away from me.